Post-Nogitsune, Stiles finds out via camera footage an unlikely person has been keeping watch over him.
The first night after they excise the Nogitsune from Stiles’ body, he doesn’t sleep. Stiles shivers fitfully, falling between hazy memories of hurting people, hurting his friends, dark rooms and long hallways, screams, iron bars and fire. John holds his son close, grateful he’s alive, wipes the sweat from Stiles’ brow, clutching him close to his chest until Stiles falls into a restless sleep. Stiles’ eyes still twitch underneath his eyelids, and his body writhes like he’s in pain, but there’s not much John can do aside from hold him. It’s not unlike ten years ago when a seven year old Stiles crawled into his bed after Claudia’s death, trying to keep the nightmares at bay.
Unfortunately a few nights later John is on the night shift again, and he can’t stay, even though he wants to. “I’ll be fine, Dad, just go,” Stiles says. He still looks too pale, drawn, the skin dark around his eyes, but it’s nowhere near that hollow, empty look his body had when he was carrying the Nogitsune inside. Stiles is healing. Slowly.
"Just call me if you need anything, okay?" John says, and after a hug, he leaves in the cruiser.
It’s a quiet night, not a bad patrol, just breaking up some would-be exhibitionist teens at the lookout point near the Preserve; nothing compared to the chaos of the previous weeks. It’s nearing 2 a.m. when John’s cell phone beeps, and his heart suddenly starts pounding when he sees the security system on his home has gone off. Is Stiles sleepwalking again? Worry and fear spike through him, and John quickly clicks to the camera footage. The worry changes to confusion when he spots Stiles sprawled out in his bed, eyes closed in the semblance of the weary thing that passes for sleep nowadays. Stiles is safe. So why did the alarm go off?
John gets his answer when he sees the window opening and a figure stepping through. “Damnnit,” he curses, and turns the engine on the cruiser, intending to hightail it back home, but, wait— is that Derek Hale?
Derek slips into the room quietly, and doesn’t seem to do anything other than watch Stiles sleep for a few moments, a frown lingering on his face as he watches Stiles toss and turn.
John doesn’t know what this is; what Derek is doing in Stiles’ bedroom, watching him sleep, and a fierce wave of protectiveness rushes over him, because this is Stiles, his son, and he only just got him back—
What is he doing? Derek is slowly approaching the bed, like he’s made his mind up about something, and then he cautiously places a hand on Stiles’ arm. Trails of black run slowly up Derek’s arm, from Stiles to him, Derek’s face contorting in a spasm of pain. Stiles’ face goes from tense to relaxed, his whole body sinking back into the bed, the chest that was heaving with erratic breaths before, now slowing to an even, calm pace.
Oh, John thinks.